In this Time
by Fiction C9
Summary: A collection of short one-shots based on prompts. Will mostly be RusAme and FrUK. Prompt#5: Snow
1. Chapter 1: Oranges

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, otherwise I would...well, you don't want to know. Anyway. The main point is that. If you have any prompts, just let me know.**

**Prompt: Oranges**

**Pairing: America and Russia**

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><p>"I know you hate tomatoes," America said, firmly (because whatever England said, the world's only superpower did not <em>wheedle<em>), "and strawberries and whatever, but you might like oranges."

Russia looked at him standing on the doorstep, and then at the oranges in the basket America was holding. There was a expression of deep consternation on his face. "America –"

"Come on, oranges are totally cool. Like, really." (No, not wheedling) "_I _like them. And these are specially imported from China. He calls them gum." America directed a slightly confused look at the small round fruits. "They don't look like gum, but whatever. Eat them for me?"

The consternation on Russia's face was overshadowed momentarily by a twitch of a smile around his eyes. "I believe that Yao means _gam_, not gum."

America nodded. That was what he had said after all. "Try one?"

"It's not that I do not appreciate the effort, _dorogoy_," Russia said, after a moment, looking again at the basket America carried in both hands. "But I do not think that these are edible. They do not look like oranges."

"Well, obviously. They're China oranges." Russia should know that. But, America appreciated that his intellect was sometimes hard to keep up with.

"Yes," Russia said. "They are oranges from China. That China gave to you."

America nodded.

Russia picked up one of the small, round things and held it up to America's face. America wondered if he was supposed to take some sort of message from it. He studied the orange. Small, round, orange, with little green leaves on top. Russia shook it. It made a rustling sound, which wasn't normal for oranges, once America thought about it, but these were China oranges, so that was okay right? He looked at Russia.

Russia sighed, one of those long deep sighs that he gave when he thought America was being particularly dim, and broke the orange in half.

America instinctively flinched back to avoid the juice spurting out and making him sticky.

And then stared.

The orange was empty. The inside was flat and brown, like paper. And the only thing that came out of it was a carefully folded paper. _Give me back my money, America_. In China's smooth calligraphy.

America snapped his gaze to the basket in his arms, and swore. "I bet all of them are like that. Damn fucker. I'll pay him back _eventually_, for God's sake."

But Russia was smiling. And that drew America up short, because there was amusement and exasperation and _love_ in that smile, and America remembered why he had asked China for those oranges in the first place.

"You are an idiot," Russia said. "And you are right. You will pay China back."

And the confidence in his tone reminded America, also, of why he had decided, earlier that morning, to skip a meeting with Congress and fly to Russia for the very purpose of giving Russia oranges. Fucking budget deficit, fucking debts.

And then Russia pulled him into the house – "I will get us some real fruit" – and sat him down at the kitchen table – "don't do anything stupid" – and America smiled and stopped remembering anything. (Just sat and watched Russia and lived in that moment.)

And he was happy.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading. <strong>


	2. Chapter 2: The Tale

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed! It's appreciated. :) If you want to, you can suggest prompts for me to write. I'll select those that give me inspiration. Enjoy.**

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><p>I, America, am the world's only superpower – shut up, China, your GDP per capita is still fuck lower than mine, so there – and therefore, the honour of narrating this most dark and harrowing tale falls to me. Me. <em>Me. <em>Me.

This tale is christened thus….: How France Got England to Let Him Call Him a Rabbit

And it began like so: on a dark and stormy night, with big scary alien ships landing in random giant craters –

_Russia interjects: It was not dark or stormy, America. It was the middle of England's summer. It was quite unpleasantly hot and sunny. And aliens live only in your house and in your head._

Oh, whatever. Details. And aliens do so exist. But, back to the story. On that dark and stormy day, we were wrapped up in this World Meeting that was, like, so unbelievably boring, and the only entertaining thing going on was France and England having it out again.

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><p>(Cut to Meeting Room in some random hotel:<p>

France: _Mon lapin,_ I am bored. Entertain me.

England: I'm not a walking bloody TV. Listen to Germany if you're so bored.

France: But, _mon lapin_, Ludwig is the reason why I am so bored.

England: ….

France: _Mon lapin – _

England: …

France: Oh, _mon lapin_…

England: …

France: _Mon laaaaapiiiiiiin…_

England: …Shut the hell up! And if you call me that again, I shall rip off your head and feed it to the sharks. And then your bloody remains can sink down to Davy Jones' locker and rot there.

France: …But you used to love rabbits so much, _Angleterre_! Do you remember when you were but a child –

England: Shut up.

France: But what shall I call you instead?

Germany: Pay attention, please, France and England.

England: Call me whatever you want, you damn frog. You've gotten us into trouble as it is.

End Scene)

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><p>And that is how the 'most delightful game' or 'bloody nightmare' depending on whether you listen to France or England – but then again, you're listening to <em>me<em>, right? Me. So we're calling it the England and France Being Stupid Show, or EFBSS.

_Russia cuts in: I do not think England is going to be pleased, America. And you have promised him that you will eat his scones the next time you visit him._

Oh. Fuck. Well, then, we can just call it The Show.

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><p>(Cut to England's house in England on a rainy day:<p>

France: _Mon canard! _I brought you some wonderful food, so that you will not starve on your inedible British contrivings. Look, there are chicken sandwiches, and fruit tarts, and some divine chocolate ice-cream, and oh, isn't that a coincidence, there's roasted duck. Shall we feast?

England: … You called me a duck.

France: Ah, yes. Does it please you?

England: And you brought duck to eat.

France: You are slow on the uptake, _mon canard_. Has it been raining more than usual?

England: …

End of scene – apologies for the slight disruption caused by France screaming and running away from sword-wielding England)

Well, that was the first of France's new endearments for England. Not one of his smarter moments, but then again, no-one's as smart as me, huh, Russia?

_Russia:_ _…as you say, dorogoy_.

(Cut to France's house during an after-boring-meeting party:

England: Your garden's improved since I last saw it, frog.

France: Ah yes, I planted several rose bushes, since you will not have roses in your garden. An adorable eccentricity.

England: Why have you got such a ton of cabbages, though? Have you gone on a cabbage-recipe spree?

France: Well, I was thinking of you, actually, _Angleterre_. You see, I have thought of a new name by which to call you! It is _mon chou_.

England: …Cabbage.

France: That is true. Is it not brilliant? Cabbage is green, and your eyes are green. Cabbage is stiff and old-fashioned in the traditions of healthy eating, and you are so strung up all the time. Cabbage is –

England: I'm going to rip you to pieces and cook you like cabbage, you bloody frog!

France: But, _mon chou_, your cooking, it is terrible. I would not wish to go in such a way.

End of scene, viewers who vomited from the violent swinging of the camera are asked to take note that it was Prussia holding it and he kind of got caught up in the chase-and-kill France debacle)

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><p>That was totally hilarious, wasn't it, Russia? I spilled my drink laughing.<p>

_Russia: You spilled it on me._

I _know_. Your hair goes all sort of dark blond when it's wet.

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><p>(Cut to the White House on a gorgeous autumn day:<p>

America: Aw, come on, Iggy, my boss won't mind it if you turn up not-so-stuffily-dressed all the time. You look like something out of a Vistonian novel or something.

England: _Victorian_ novel, America. And I'm not stuffily dressed, I'll have you know. Most businesspeople in this century wear this form of attire. It's merely a suit. You, on the other hand, do need to reconsider your dress. That stupid clown nose and big rubber Pikachu shoes are completely inappropriate.

France: Don't be like that, _Sourcils_. I believe that America's people have a predilection of Kiku's Pokémon. He is reflecting his citizens.

England: Even so – _what_ did you call me?

America: He called you sor-cee, saucy? Oh, wow, that's so not you, huh, Iggy?

France: It is not actually pronounced that way, _Amerique_. It is –

England: You called me 'Eyebrows', you bloody frog!

France: Well, _Sourcils_, I was thinking of what must be your most defining feature, and of course, you know that you have monstrous eyebrows – you really should do something about them – and so –

England: …_France_.

End scene. France didn't manage to get away, so the rest of the film is censored. Ooooh. Ow. _Oh_. Ouch. Didn't know legs could bend that way)

Haha! See, me the hero was involved in that one. The grand finale! Nothing else after that. England just gave up and let France call him a rabbit. Not that I see the connection, mind you. Rabbits are cute fluffy white things. England's – well – not.

_Russia: Your fate still lies in England's scones, remember, America?_

Fine, fine. Hey, why can't I call you something? Don't Russians have endearment things too? What are they? Spit it out. Spit it out.

_Russia: …_

_France: You can call him by a diminutive, Amerique. Vanya._

But your name's Ivan, isn't it, Ivan?

_Russia: …_

_England: America! If you don't think I'm not going to kill you after that stupid _tale_. It did not happen like that, you great buffoon – come back here –_


	3. Chapter 3: Irrationality Not America's

**Disclaimer: Not mine, again. **

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your reviews. Azurewatabi, your prompts were interesting; I'll think on them some more and see if I can think of anything. Thank you for taking the time to come up with them. By the way, this story is actually a spin-off from something I've been thinking about. I might (might being the keyword, because I stink at long one-shots) write something longer on the subject. Enjoy!**

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><p>"Do you think, America, that history matters?"<p>

England says this, on one rainy miserable day (one of many in England) when both he and America are sitting in his house, drinking tea (America drinks Coke, because it is _the_ manly drink) and talking about the stock markets (England talks, America listens and tries not to fall asleep).

The change in tone of England's voice, from faraway and fond to faraway and solemn, drags America back from burgers-and-fries land and drops him with a reluctant jolt, back into fish-and-chips land with England.

England is looking at him with an unreadable expression in his green eyes, and for a moment, America wishes France were here, because France would know what that expression means. France is the one who's known England for centuries, after all. Who's fought with him for most of that.

And, as America thinks, one must know thine – thou – whatever – his enemy. America's certainly spends a lot of time getting to know (stalking) Russia. Stupid Commie bastard.

England is still looking at him, and America squirms uncomfortably in his seat. "I really wouldn't know, Iggy. Why don't you ask China? He's _ancient_."

England snorts. "The day China has a civil conversation with me, outside of politics, is the day I tell France to his face that he's good-looking."

America frowns. "You think France is hot?"

"_No_," England splutters tea all over the table. "That bloody frog! Are you short a bolt, America?"

America is very insulted. Firstly, he has all his bolts, there's just this tiny screw thingy that fell off his watch when he bumped into England's stupid coat-stand on the way into the living room. But England doesn't know that. Does he? If he did, it would be creepy stalker-ish. After all, even America doesn't know when Russia lost a watch-screw-thing; the last time, Belarus had _told_ him after he'd given her a dollar. That was all. He hadn't, like, seriously, personally _found out_.

Secondly, England's tone is really too dismissive. America never says anything worth dismissing. Everything he says must be taken with absolute seriousness, the way Russia does when America goes on at him about the stupidity of having only sparkling water everywhere, and how ironic that is when it's _already _sparkling everywhere, what with all the snow.

So, really, England is being very insulting. But America is a magnanimous person, so he decides to forgive England. He takes a sip of Coke.

"Anyway," England sighs, when he has finished wiping the tea of the table. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. You're too young to understand yet." He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate of scones. Burnt scones. Very burnt scones. "There you go, America. Eat up. You're looking jolly thin lately, what with the recession and all that."

America gulps. Think fast. Think very, very fast. He is the smartest, greatest, grandest nation in the world. _Surely_ he can think of a way to not eat England's…scones. He supposes they are scones. It's not like England ever cooks anything else at tea-time. But…they look more like…well. They don't look like anything, really. They just scream 'Death, death to anyone who eats me! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! WA –' Right, he got the idea. Shut up already.

"England," America says bravely, "I've, like, got to go now. I'm meeting (stalking and arranging coincidence run-in with) Russia in a while. We're going to…fish." Yeah, like England is going to believe _that_. "We're going to fish at McDonald's. There's a really big pond in there that aliens flew in yesterday. It's got fish in it. Burger-shaped fish. With cabbage and all that organic junk." There, much more believable.

England doesn't seem to be paying attention to him; he is staring out of the window with that unreadable expression on his face. America frowns and leans over, tries to see what he is seeing.

But there is nothing there but rain.

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><p>"Oh, <em>Amerique<em>," sighs France when America asks him about it a few days later. "It was the seventh of September, _non_?"

America thinks about it. "I think so. Maybe. So?"

"That is Queen Elizabeth I's birthday."

America thinks about this. "I didn't know that. But why does it matter?"

"_Angleterre_ is always melancholy on that day. It makes him think of the past in a way that deathdays do not. Deathdays make _mon lapin_ think of what went before; birthdays make him think of what could have been."

America doesn't fully understand this, still. So he goes for an ostensibly easier question, "Why did he ask me if history matters?"

France shrugs, a graceful roll of the shoulders. He smiles. "It is a question you, too, will learn to ask with time."

"I'm two hundred and thirty five years old!"

"_Oui_. Still a child."

America doesn't quite know what to say to this, and so he goes to watch (stalk) Russia and make sure the stupid Commie bastard doesn't do anything Commie-ish. America – who is more than two centuries old – has to protect his country, after all. And Russia, with his pale blond hair and very nice eyes, is _very_ dangerous.

Really.

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><p><strong>AN: I seem to be obsessed with using America as a narrator...**


	4. Chapter 4: America's Idea

**Disclaimer: Don't own it.**

**A/N: The prompt was Mirror, and I thought of, for some reason, water. So you see. Again, thanks to all those who gave prompts. I appreciate them, even if I didn't use them. And thanks for all your reviews.**

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><p>When America had an idea, he had an <em>ideal <em>idea. (Poke. _Ideal_ idea. Snigger.)

And by _ideal_ idea (POKE), America meant that the idea carried characteristics of a nature not normally afforded to the ideas of lesser nations (like _China_).

No, America's ideas were IDEAL.

And this meant that they were BRILLIANT and GREAT and GRAND and above all, they were PRACTICAL. Because America was the world's only superpower, and so everything was practical, really. Even those huge robots in space thing that was _inspired_ and was really the solution to global warming and all of England's other worries, but England was just stuffy that way.

(Really, if they needed to power the robots, why didn't they just give them Big Macs? Iggy was just getting old.)

And so, that brings us, the readers, to one beautiful summer morning in Washington, where America had decided to spend his day on top of a cupboard just off to the side of his boss's office.

Now, America was not _lazing_ on top of that cupboard. Oh, no, he was not _escaping_ his boss, who was really quite a nice man, but with a distressing occupation with his occupation. (Poke.)

No, America was _thinking_. America was contemplating the abstract concepts of creation, of life, of the universe, and most seriously, of what, he, America, had done so far to show his appreciation of those concepts.

And shock, horror, America felt tears welling up in his eyes. He had done _nothing_. Nothing. (Well, there was the sending-Iggy-as-many-useless-emails-as-possible-marathon an hour ago, but that was another lifetime, really.) And as America gazed out of the window opposite his boss's office door, he felt a cavern open up inside him; a cavern of _craving_, a deep ache of craving that insisted that he must do something. Now. Now. To further his cause as the unwilling but necessary benefactor of nation-kind.

And he had an idea.

An _ideal _idea.

He jumped off the cupboard, landing with a dramatic crash reminiscent of horses being ridden off a cliff, and he made forth, in a fashion worthy of the greatest armies. (There was just that _one_ minute or so in the front hall when he had to hide behind the coat stand. But he had to; his boss's assistant-person was coming in through the door.)

And he went to look for Russia.

He approached Russia in the subtlest of manners – that is to say, he took a flight by stealth jet to Russia and had it drop him on Russia's door step. And then he turned around quickly and spied out the land. And once he was sure that the coast was clear, he picked Russia's lock with the key Russia had given him (it was still 'picking', because he hadn't knocked, had he?), and planted his coat on Russia's coat stand, and walked into Russia's living room. And said (shouted):

"Commie bastard, drop whatever shit you're doing and – why are you _asleep_? It's five in the afternoon!"

Russia rubbed a hand through his hair and peered sleepily at America with one ice-blue eye. "Америка," he said, accent creeping into his words, "Vhy are you here?"

"We're going on a mission – to improve Anglo-French relations!"

Russia sat up, pushing away the blanket. He glanced at the grand old grandfather clock behind the sofa. "It is one in the morning, Америка."

America chose this moment to look at the clock too. He blinked. Right. Well. "Good deeds know no time limits," he declared, and grabbed Russia's wrist. "Off we go, Commie bastard."

The pilot of the stealth jet wondered, briefly, if he was supposed to be kidnapping sleepy Russian kids in their early twenties, but decided against questioning the effusive teenager who seemed to have clearance for everything except, maybe, the nuclear arsenal. He shook his head. Kids these days.

By the time they arrived in England per America's Grand Plan, it was five a.m. Russian time, and two a.m. English time. America had the jet drop them off in front of a 24-hour McDonald's, where he and Russia stocked up on necessary foodstuffs consisting of four, not five burgers each (They were on a mission, people! No overeating) and two, not four cans of Coke. Russia demonstrated some peculiar reluctance to consume his share, and so America, in the spirit of generosity, agreed with some reservation to imbibe the lot.

They made it to the Channel by three a.m.

"What exactly are we doing, America?" Russia asked.

America had spread out a picnic blanket on the embankment and was laying out food from another McDonald's store they had encountered soon after they had left the first one. He also put out some of Russia's vodka that he had stolen from the side-cabinet on his way out of Russia's living room. Russia never locked his liquor cabinets.

America flopped down on the blanket and gestured to Russia to sit. "We're improving Anglo-French relations, like I said."

"We are having a picnic," Russia pointed out.

America nodded. Russia was slow sometimes. (But, of course, that was compared to _him_. It was just a bit difficult for other people, sometimes, not being America.) And he explained, "I got a blimp to come here at six o'clock and fly over the channel for the whole day."

"A blimp," Russia said.

"A blimp," America said.

They sat in companionable silence. (Or rather, in a silence of Russia-not-wanting-to-know and America-thinking-that-Russia-knows.)

Around four a.m., Russia asked, "If the blimp is coming at six o'clock, why are we here now?"

America shrugged, morosely. The food was gone, and he was a bad waiter. (Poke. Pun.) "I want McDonald's."

Russia looked at him.

America looked back.

Russia said, resigned, "I will go. This time."

"You're the awesome-est awesome, Commie bastard!" America grinned, and waved at Russia to depart.

At five a.m., America peered into the bottom of an empty Coke can and looked over at Russia.

Russia was lying on his back, facing the still-dark English sky. America wondered if he was asleep. The sofa couldn't have been very comfortable, even before America had come in and gotten him up at an ungodly hour.

"Hey, Russia, why were you sleeping on the couch?"

Russia glanced at him. Awake, then. "Does it matter, America?"

America frowned. "Were you watching TV or something? Or did you just fall asleep there?" But there'd been the blanket and everything.

Russia was quiet for a moment, as if he was considering. And then he sighed and said, "I fell asleep."

His words held no ring of truth, but rather a clang of finality. And America knew well enough to let it go. "All right then."

Russia turned away again and closed his eyes.

At five fifty-five a.m., America nudged Russia awake and told him to watch the sky.

At six a.m., some early-bird joggers on both sides of the Channel stopped and stared, open-mouthed, at a gigantic blimp floating across the water.

At seven a.m., America got a call.

"You bloody moron!" England shouted down the line. "Is this your doing?"

America opened his mouth, but his phone beeped, warning him of another incoming call. "Wait a minute, Iggy. Hello, France."

"If this is your doing, _Amerique_, it is _magnifique_."

Beep. "Thanks. Wait a minute."

"Alfred, the British Prime Minister wants to know why there's an _American blimp_ over the English Channel. Do you know anything about this?"

Beep. "Hold on, Barry."

"America, you great buffoon, I'm going to hang, draw and quarter you!" England snarled.

America hung up the phone. The morning was good, and England was ruining his mood.

Russia said quietly beside him, with an odd twitch to his mouth, as if he were trying not to laugh, "It will make Europe happy."

America grinned at him.

His ideas _were_ ideal.

Above them, a blimp floated across the deep dark water of the channel. A banner streamed below it, imprinted with both an American flag, and the words "This is now the ANGLO-FRENCH POND." With a big green picture of a frog.

All in the name of international relations.

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><p><strong>I couldn't resist it. It's actually true. Some Eurocrats wanted to rename the English Channel the <em>Anglo-French Pond<em>. **


	5. Chapter 5: Snow

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**A/N: Sorry this has taken so long. Sixth form and procrastination make for a very potent combination. Hope you enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p>America kicked at the snow, watching the soft whiteness crumble and split under his foot. He put his hands to his mouth and blew, breath warming – for a second – the thick woollen material of his gloves. He rubbed the gloves together, in a futile attempt to both conserve the heat of his breath and create more heat through friction. And then he sighed. Russia was so freaking cold.<p>

Ivan shoved a hot paper cup against his cheek. America jumped, and the coffee swirled wildly, almost spilling out – Ivan righted it before it could stain his glove, still wrapped around the middle of the cup.

"What'd you do that for?" America demanded in a (not-high, not-squeaky) voice. Hot coffee could _scald_ – it was _dangerous_.

Ivan said, "You looked like you were thinking. And that is never a good thing, _da_?"

"I wasn't thinking," America said, without thinking, and then hurried on before that neutral expression on Ivan's face could get any neutral-ler. (which really meant Ivan was laughing hysterically inside) "It was just really freaking cold. Why are you so cold, Ivan?"

A Russian woman in the café nearby edged down her newspaper and stared at them. Ivan smiled. It was one of his slow amused smiles, an expression that made the pale lilac of his eyes deepen to almost purple.

America took a gulp of hot stinging coffee. "Fine. Why is _Russia_ so cold, Ivan?"

Ivan looked over the top of his head, shading his eyes against the high winter sun. "It is winter. What would you expect?"

Well, duh, of course it was winter. Alfred _knew_ that…what he wanted to know was why in sweetest heaven and coldest hell did Russia's winter insist on being so particularly freezing. If Alfred had known it was going to be this unreasonable, he would have dragged Ivan to America for Halloween.

He informed Ivan of this sentiment.

Ivan said, "We are not here for Halloween, Alfred; we are here for a World Meeting."

Like that was relevant.

Ivan sighed. But it wasn't a General-Winter-is-coming-never-stopping kind of sigh, deep and rattling; it was a – well, amused (Alfred frowned, because there was nothing to be amused at in their immediate vicinity) – kind of exasperated, fond sigh that made the air in front of Ivan's face blur and fade.

Ivan said, "Drink your coffee. We have ten more minutes."

America grumbled, "Germany and his pocket-watch can just go down the rabbit-hole."

"Don't let England hear you say that."

"I can defend myself against Eyebrows."

"_Da_, I am sure."

Around them, the snow lay thick and unmoving on the winter-hard earth. The cold seeped from the thin air into America's fingers, still curved cold around the coffee cup Ivan had brought him.

And, well, as Germany will inform you (after he finishes hyperventilating), they managed to be late to the meeting by two hours.


End file.
